


Car Crash

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, Clint Barton Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Insecure Clint, POV Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's never been good at talking about his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Car Crash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/gifts).



> A very belated birthday gift for [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander)! I'm not sure how well I filled your prompt, but I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> This is kind of a weird mash-up of canons, but I pictured it as predominantly MCU.
> 
> Thanks to [queenofthepuddingbrains](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddingbrains/pseuds/queenofthepuddingbrains) for help hashing this out (and also for always being the best cheerleader).

_I wanna feel the car crash_  
 _I wanna feel the capsize_  
 _I wanna feel the bomb drop, the earth stop_  
 _'Til I'm satisfied_  
 _I wanna feel the car crash_  
 _'Cause I'm dyin' on the inside_  
 _I wanna let go and know_  
 _That I'll be alright, alright_  
([X](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mattnathanson/carcrash.html))

 

1.

The first time it happens, Clint is twelve years old, sitting on a lumpy hospital mattress and trying to ignore the teddy bear that’s been dropped off by a couple of women with t-shirts identifying them as church volunteers. Not anyone he recognized, a small blessing for which he’s grateful. They hadn’t stayed long, either, quickly replaced by a flock of nurses, and most recently by the harried-looking social worker who’s currently sitting in the chair across from him.

 _Erica_ , says her nametag, and she’s the sort of perpetually middle-aged woman with bags under her eyes so deep that Clint wonders when she last had more than five minutes of sleep. She also has unnaturally yellow hair that billows wildly out around her face, reminding him of a sheep in need of shearing. She’s holding a clipboard and a pen lined with teeth marks, telling him he ought to feel _lucky_ to have survived the accident--well, perhaps _lucky_ isn’t the best choice of words considering what’s happened to his parents, but _someone up there_ is definitely looking out for him.

“Like who?” asks Clint, tipping his chin at the angle he’s learned means _tough guy_ in school and ignoring the way the movement makes his head pound. “The man in the moon?” He feels the muscles in his jaw tighten instinctively, every part of his body preparing for the swing of a fist, or the verbal barb he’s come to always anticipate.

Erica doesn’t respond to that, at least not in words. Instead she gives him a look that says she’s seen his kind of smart guy countless times before, isn’t going to be impressed so easily. She looks back down at her clipboard, as if she’s trying to remember what she ought to say next, as if the job that’s etched itself into the lines of her face somehow still hasn’t become familiar enough to do it without her script.

“We recognize that this is a difficult time for you,” she says finally, though she still isn’t looking at him, seems to be going through the motions as if the person on the other end of her interview might be interchangeable.

“Why would it be?” asks Clint, more a challenge than a question. He wants to hear her answer, has to keep her talking, because as long as she is, he won’t have to.

She falters ever so slightly at that, almost imperceptibly, but Clint’s a master at reading the expressions of adults around him, anticipating the next move before it can come and catch him unaware.

“Your parents are--The doctors told you, didn’t they?” She glances down at her notes again, flipping through them, decidedly off-kilter now.

“What?” asks Clint, forcing the word out, and now he’s using it like a weapon, can feel the desperation beginning to build underneath his skin. Better to keep pushing, better to turn this into a fight. Anger is a lifeline as he tries not to remember the twisted metal of the truck, the way his mother’s scream hurt his ears, time standing still as the world spun. He can feel the grief closing in, the tears hot at the backs of his eyes, but he knows better than to let them out, knows he can’t allow anybody to see that.

“Your parents are gone,” says Erica, placing a too-heavy hand on his knee. It feels more like a trap than a comfort. “That’s why I’m talking to you now, so we can get you and your brother taken care of.”

“Right,” Clint says flatly, arming his voice with a sharp edge of bitterness. That part’s never been hard. “And how are you going to do that?”

Erica sighs, the thin veneer of patience and empathy already beginning to wear through. “You’ll be placed with a foster family, as I’ve been trying to explain. Now, could you tell me a bit about yourself, so we’ll know what you need?”

Clint falls silent for a moment, his stomach churning. He’s thought about this possibility before, has had daydreams of calling the cops on his father, being whisked away to a happier home. A large part of him is aching for comfort, for someone, anyone, to tell him the pretty lies his mother used to whisper before bed, to tell him that things will get better. But this woman is nobody he knows, nobody he trusts, and there’s an iron weight sitting on his chest, preemptive shame heating his cheeks.

He bites down on his tongue and stares at his feet, finding the wisecracking asshole he lets guard his heart. “I want a family with a pool. And a horse. And maybe a private jet. You got any that live in a penthouse? That would be cool too.”

Erica gives him a withering look, and the disappointment he feels is almost a relief.

 

2.

It isn’t a surprise when Barney comes to him. He’s been disappearing more and more lately, coming back with new shoes, new clothes, pockets full of candy bars--the real kind, with official brand names on them. Barney is eighteen, old enough to sign papers for himself, make decisions for himself, without the fear of being caught by anyone with a badge.

Clint is half asleep under the night sky, stretched out on the roof of the parked truck that pulls the horse trailer. He finds himself craving open spaces these days, too many hours spent in front of a crowd, the stale air of the big top feeling oppressive in the summer heat.

Barney doesn’t announce himself, just climbs onto the hood and sits down by Clint’s feet, the addition of his weight making the truck lean a little to one side.

“Something up?” asks Clint, though he knows the answer, knows that Barney wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. He sits up slightly, propped on his elbows though that makes the sore muscles in his arms protest.

Barney hesitates, scratching his head, though it’s obvious the movement is contrived, designed to build the tension, make his confession all the more dramatic. “A bunch of us are getting out.”

“Of what?” Clint sits up further, staring at the back of his brother’s head. He knows tthis answer too, knows he’s right from the familiar sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“ _Out,_ ” Barney repeats, gesturing vaguely with one hand.

“What, the sky?” Clint scoffs.

“This life,” says Barney. “I’m done. Duquesne’s got a crew together and he wants me on it. Now’s a good time to bail, while we’re close to New York.”

“So, you’re here to say goodbye?” asks Clint, betrayal surging hot in his chest. He knows Duquesne, knows the job’s on the wrong side of the law.

“Came to ask if you want to come with us,” says Barney, still not making eye contact.

Clint swallows hard, his heart pounding in his temples. He wants to protest, wants to beg Barney to stay, because he can’t fathom stealing his way through life, but being truly alone is equally terrifying. He can’t say that, though, _can’t_ bring any sort of sound to come out of his throat.

“Problem?” asks Barney, watching him.

Clint just shakes his head, still paralyzed, anger flaring again at his own helplessness. He bites his lip, then brings his hand down against the roof of the truck with a _clang_ that makes Barney jump and the horses snuffle in the trailer behind them.

“Stop that!” Barney hisses, the disgust in his face bringing up the unexpected ghost of their father. “You know what? Offer withdrawn. You’d never cut it with us anyway.”

Clint opens his mouth to respond, to apologize, or maybe even beg, but all that comes out is a broken little hiccup. Barney just shakes his head, and jumps down off of the truck, disappearing into the darkness.

 

3.

Hill catches up to him in Medical, after he’s had thirty two stitches and three bags of IV fluids. In hindsight, he probably should have known the lecture was coming when the nurse kept him waiting after treatment, wasn’t eager to shuffle him along and get to the next patient like usual.

“What were you thinking?” Hill asks, by way of greeting as she enters the room.

Clint feels practically naked, sitting on the edge of the exam table in nothing but a thin hospital gown. He presses his knees together, folds his hands in his lap like it might make him disappear. He doesn’t have an answer for her, at least not yet.

“Barton,” Hill repeats, her tone making it difficult not to flinch. “Answer me. I asked for your status on no less than _three_ separate occasions. You never indicated that there was any kind of problem. You are aware that there is disciplinary action to be taken for lying to your handler?”

Clint looks at his bare feet, flexes his toes experimentally, and wishes for the building to explode.

“Wasn’t a problem,” he manages finally, avoiding her eyes.

Hill sighs exasperatedly and props a hand on her hip, which gives Clint the absurd vision of a disapproving school teacher. “You were injured and out of ammunition. In what way is that not a problem?”

“Got the job done, didn’t I?” Clint retorts, shame twisting into anger, hot and tight inside of his chest.

“Not the point,” Hill insists. “You’re no good to anyone if you get yourself killed. Contrary to what you seem to believe, you’re not actually expendable to us.”

“Then what do you want?” asks Clint, setting his jaw as he finally looks up. “You want me to abort the assignment and call for evac? You want me to fail, so you can put that on my record?”

“I want you to do better,” says Hill, then stares him down in silence for another moment before she turns and leaves.

Clint swallows hard around the lump in his throat and clamps his teeth against the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He is twenty four, he tells himself, and far too old to do something stupid like crying.

 

4.

“You’re doing it again,” says Bobbi, letting her fork fall to her plate with a clatter that makes Clint jump.

“What?” he asks, the few bites of rice he’s managed to swallow sitting in the pit of his stomach like lead weights. By his count, it’s been less than five minutes since the end of their last argument. He watches the little puddles of yellow light that bounce off her ring--the all-wrong ring he picked out by himself--and tries not to think about how fighting is all they seem to do these days.

“Sulking,” says Bobbi. “Thinking of your next _brilliant_ witty comeback or something.” The sarcasm in her voice makes him feel sick.

“I wasn’t,” says Clint, though he already knows it isn’t the right response, can’t be the right response.

“This is exactly what I mean,” she ploughs ahead. “I point out something for us to work on and you go all sullen on me. Why can’t we just talk, like two normal adults, and then move on with our day?”

“Thought we were,” he says quietly, pushing a piece of fish to the edge of his plate and trying to get a handle on the dread that’s crawling its way up the back of his throat. He can’t seem to tell her how much he wants to fix things, how hard he’s trying to be what she needs. Those words cling sourly to the roof of his mouth, squeeze the air out of his lungs.

“Moving on isn’t you sitting there pouting,” says Bobbi. “Moving on is changing the subject to something else. Something pleasant.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” Clint snaps, recoiling at the way that makes her flinch. She is trying, he knows, but he can’t seem to find the path that will let him meet her in the middle. Instead he picks up his plate and pushes away from the table, dumping the remains of his dinner into the trash.

 

5.

Clint wakes from the dream with a jolt, his heart pounding, his skin drenched in sweat. He forces himself to sit up slowly, though there’s adrenaline screaming through his veins. The cramped little hotel room is dark, save for the lights bleeding in from outside. Natasha is sitting with her back to him, her gaze trained to keep watch on the window, and she keeps so still that he has to check for the sound of her breathing.

Clint gets to his feet slowly, grateful that she can’t see the flush of shame burning his cheeks in the darkness as he retreats into the bathroom.

He flips the light on, though it makes his head pound, stares down his reflection in the mirror-- disheveled hair, red-rimmed eyes--and swipes at the beginnings of tears.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks himself quietly, then turns on the sink, wincing as he splashes cold water against the hot skin of his face. He’s already taken too long in here, he thinks, and he flushes the toilet for good measure before slipping back out into the main room.

He freezes when he realizes Natasha’s turned to face him, like a statue in the darkness. Clint opens his mouth, then closes it again, any delusions he’s had about her letting his little display go unnoticed dying in that moment. Clint makes his way back to the bed, waiting for her to speak first. When she doesn’t, he stretches out on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling and willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears.

After a while, Natasha stands, switches on the small lamp in one corner, and sits on the edge of the mattress. Clint looks away as her weight shifts the bed, his eyes burning again.

“You’re not going back to sleep, Clint,” she says evenly.

“Not since you turned the light on, no,” he agrees, though even he isn’t half convinced by the attempt at levity in his voice.

“You had a dream that woke you,” says Natasha, and it isn’t a question.

Clint exhales slowly as he feels the bottom drop out. The words are stuck in his throat again and he recognizes this, knows what comes next, that this is the part where she’ll walk away, or worse yet write him off as a lost cause. They’ve scarcely been working together for a few months, but he already feels the abandonment like a blow, has to resist the urge to curl up and actually try to disappear.

“Clint,” she says again, but this time her voice is soft, gentle in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever heard before.

He turns to look at her, then, because there’s nothing left to lose.

“Everybody has nightmares,” says Natasha, and there’s a sincerity in her face that Clint thinks has probably gotten men like him killed. He believes her, though, believes her despite himself.

The weight on his chest eases ever so slightly. “Even you?”

Natasha laughs, not unkindly. “Sometimes I think my nightmares would give you nightmares.”

Clint sits up, then, pulls his knees to his chest and makes a decision. He watches her in his peripheral vision as the words begin to come, slowly at first, then gaining momentum. “I was in--My dad had this old Chevy truck. Wouldn’t get rid of the thing even after part of the floor rusted out and you could see the ground from the back seat. He was driving, and talking to my mom. They were arguing. Next thing--There was another car. He slammed on the brakes, but he’d been drinking and I--I remember flying.”


End file.
